I'm sitting here waiting for what I consider an appropriate time to go to the funeral home. The father of a lifelong friend passed away unexpectedly on Friday. I was so shocked by it that I truly checked the paper (online) overnight in hopes that it was just a mistake, and that someone had told my parents incorrect information.
They hadn't. So now here I sit, ready to go view someone who I was not ready to let go. I wept this morning after reading his obituary. I cried when I walked in and saw his neighbor...and asked how she was, and we hugged. I cried more when I saw his deceased wife's book from a cantata that we were singing out of this morning. I sang out of her book today, instead of my own. I felt Peggy with me.
I hate dealing with death. I know where Taze is gone. I know where Mrs. Doughtery is gone, who passed away earlier in the week. But it still is just one more piece of my childhood....one more face I'll no longer see on this Earth. It makes my heart hurt. I hate this for John. I hate that in his mid-30s, he's got neither parent left. I hate it for his grandsons, who are similar in ages to my sons. I hate that knowing he was diabetic and had had some issues with his feet, much as my father-in-law has. I hate knowing that this could happen to the boys' Grandaddy...and Chris' Dad. I hate that we do not have a cure for this disease that runs both in my family and in Chris'. I hate going to funerals by myself, but what else am I to do?
I know I have to buck up and wipe my face, and go be supportive, because my loss is nothing compared to theirs. I need to show them my love and God's grace.
But it doesn't make me hate it any less.